


A debt to be Paid

by The34thRule



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: M/M, Masters of the Bazaar, Other, Resurrection, Vampirism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-25 00:34:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22066975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The34thRule/pseuds/The34thRule
Summary: A betrayal.A seeker.A reclamation.Intact once more in Body and Mind, Mr Candles resumes his place within the Bazaar, bringing back the Light and Dreams the denizens of the Neath crave.But nothing is ever simple, and so the Master must see to other means to sustain himself...(Beware, giant space bats doing naughty things ahead)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	1. Perhaps I do drink... Wines.

This new city was both strange and new, and yet oh so familiar. The People had changed, the Buildings had changed, the Traditions, the Morals, the Stories has changed.

But at their core, the same. A city sold, its inhabitants stolen along with it, a race bathed in the Judgement’s light now lost to the dark of the Neath.

They couldn’t help being unsuitable for life here. Every moment of their lives were bathed in the light of the so called Masters of the Great Chain. They were as dependent on it as a babe for its parents milk. Cut off, cast aside by the light they once adored, unable to return to its embrace lest they suffer the fate of erasure...

He pitied them. He understood them, how it felt to be cut off, abandoned.

So he brought Light to the Dark. Not the toxic, fatal light of the Sun, but safe, created light. Candles, lanterns and even the glow of Dreams were spun by his ghostly white paws, not for free, but much, much more reasonable than his fellows. A song, a memory, a nightmare. A simple price to pay for such comforts.

And then... a mistake. A deal. A Betrayal. Even now his paws clutch his robes a little tighter when he remembers their promise. A bit of flesh. A bit of blood. Easily healed.

He trusted when the fruit was offered. He had always been... Kind, in his own way. His deals and offers were always skewed in the Runt’s favour, though he complained. And though he mocked him for his ambition to overcome the curse of his runthood, he was always there for every test and attempt, waiting for news. Of course he ate the fruit without hesitation, straight from the others paw.

He didn’t question the dizziness. Didn’t protest when he laid him upon the stone slab. Merely called out, questioningly as he went to leave, not understanding the flinch of his body before he left without looking back.

He understood it clearly, when the knife, lined with teeth, buried itself into his stomach and tore through flesh. How his limbs, weakened to the point he could barely raise them, were unable to prevent five fingered hands from grabbing, from pulling, tearing him outside his own body with wet splashes, gurgling on a red tide that rose up his throat. He saw, helpless, as a red dripping chunk of white flesh was pulled away, strands of muscle stretching and snapping, tiny mouths with blunt, ivory teeth tearing at what was once a part of him.

A bit of Flesh. A bit of Blood.

And yet, he was a Curator. A mere blade, even one lined with the teeth of his brethren, couldn’t truly slay him. And yet, as a Runt, his capacity to heal from such wounds was limited. And they kept cutting, and cutting, and cutting...

He had long ago lost the capacity to speak, or even gurgle. Torn tendons and lacerated ligaments prevented his body from moving. Only his eyes, wide and rolling from side to side, testified to the scraps of life that cling to his bones and offal. And even that was denied to him as the cloth covered his face.

He heard _His_ return. The Pretender, the Betrayer! He heard the bellow, the rage that shook the temple they ruled. He heard their dismissal, the deal struck.

He felt strong arms raise his broken body. Every jolt and jostle adding to the agony. The snarling at his once fellows. The biting cold that clutched at his insides, blowing up from deep, deep within the bowels of the Neath.

He was dropped. He crashed, weakened bones snapping on impact, a fresh wave of burning pain washing over him.

And there, he waited. And hated. And _raged_. Sheer fury kept his broken body on the cusp of life, as he called out within dreams, drawing upon those who once adored him. These poor creatures drawn into the dark.

Years passed. Cities fell. New lives within the Neath, who did not know his name, who did not know his Light. And yet they came.

And eventually, as his broken body pulled itself together, bit by bit, tendon and vein and bone knitting together, his salvation appeared, landing with a thud and a crack of bone. The years had not been kind, but it was unmistakable. Those same ivory teeth that was once stained ruby red...

He fell upon the not quite corpse with a remarkable hunger, tearing and swallowing, not needing something as crude as a knife to get the job done. Stripping flesh from bones, snapping and sucking out marrow, he watched those rolling eyes with grim satisfaction.

He gripped the mostly intact skull once his meal was complete and slammed it into the stone with a hoarse gasp of effort, cracking easily like an egg. A small mercy. One not deserved perhaps. But deep within the wretched corpse was a shred of who he once was. They were such fragile creatures after all, someone had to look out for them. And as he could personally attest, the actions of a few would not reflect those of a whole.

His next meal arrived several days later. Strength was returning to his bones, his stomach distended with flesh, containing the spark of what was once his own. Hunger, for the first time in centuries, gnawed are him, and as his body regained its musculature, he paced, like a caged animal, circling below the opening far above. The days stretched longer and longer, and a worm of doubt and fear crept into his heart. Perhaps this was all that remained. Perhaps the third had long been lost, perhaps his benefactor had been discovered, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps...

The third body dropped. The third pair of eyes stared, quivering.

His third meal was incredibly sweet, tongue rasping over bones, dragging every ounce of meat from them. Skull in paw, he tossed, smashing it against the wall easily. And once his body rested, he clutched onto the wall... and Climbed.

———————————

The Neath gleams now. Candles peered down from the tower with a faint grin on his face, watching urchins scurry from rooftop to rooftop with flint and wicks, lighting the lanterns hanging from the eaves. Hives bloated with rich honey cling to his tower, the prisoner bees allowing their excesses to trickle down into spouts and basins, honeyed water providing just enough to allow the populace a glimpse into Parabola, even if they could not properly enter without the pure, undiluted stuff. He made quite the tidy sum from Veilgarden selling chunks of Honeycomb to eager, creative poets and stars of stage.

But he had a more pressing issue to deal with, descending from his waxy dwelling, navigating the twists and turns until he comes to a door decorated by carvings of bottles and glasses. Without fanfare, the stone glides out of the way at his touch, allowing him to access the inner sanctum of one of his fellows.

————————————

Wines was perhaps the most decadent of them all. His habit of tailored clothing designed for the seduction of a different body type, his palate unsatisfied by anything other than the very best.

He was also notorious for attempting to skip out on paying for any of his Neathy Delights, or the consequences of his actions, and as such Candles was unsurprised to find him attempting to climb out of the tower with his wings still bound into that ruby red silk creation.

”Dear Wines, are you going somewhere? I believed we had an... appointment.”

The curator had the decency to look embarrassed as his albino partner swept into the room near silently, pale pink eyes taking hold of him.

”Yes, well... I am... quite busy, there’s such a call for my services since your return spreading such good cheer and-“

A finger to the lips hushed him, Candles plucking at the cords holding the Curator bound. Wines only shifted his position as the corset fell from his body, and even he couldn’t resist the slight moan as the tension in them were released. Pale hands traced the larger body, and Wine’s eyes followed as he was circled, tongue wetting his lips unconsciously.

”I dare say your... Jervaise was it? Is more than capable in seeing to matters in your absence. We have a much more pressing engagement...”

He did not gasp, but his eyes certainly widened as pale hands expertly brushed over certain spots, a breathy gasp as he was squeezed, wings rustling as a pair of fingers sank between discrete folds. Candles rested his chin upon the crook of Wine’s neck, rolling his wrist for a few moments before pulling away, examining the sticky strings that stretched between his fingers.  
  


”Are you so starved dear Wines? We’ve barely begun and...”

He brought the fingers close, nostrils twitching before his tongue slid out, tasting the larger ebony Curator’s juices. A rich bouquet that always seemed to remind Candles of Wine’s many working girls. Perhaps the two of them were more alike than he wanted to admit. Certainly he had never seen him mount another.

He was knocked out of his musing as Wines shifted against him, avoiding his gaze, wings fluttering faintly in barely concealed embarrassment.

”This is... not a good time for me, I... could not possibly risk-“

His voice trailed off as Candles pressed firmly against his back, making his intentions known, his tip emerging between the larger Master’s thighs. Despite himself, Wines was sorely tempted to relinquish control there and then. No stranger to his Fellows needs, it was always a surprise, and a tad humbling, to rediscover over and over again just how... “Gifted” the Runt was.

”Then, perhaps next time dear Wines...”

His hand slid down the chest and stomach, pausing momentarily against the faint bulge where his womb lay, before continuing southward. An adjustment of his hips and Wines had to gasp as his own Male half was pressed against that of Candles, held firm by albino fingers.

Slowly, they ran towards their dual tips, paused, and returned down to Wine’s base, just as Candles used his free hand to tilt his head to the side. A slender tongue ran over his sensitive throat as his Male hood was stimulated, teased, squeezed and rubbed, the hint of claw around the most vulnerable tip making him shudder.

”Candles... I...”

The albino gently shushed him, pressing lips against his throat, beating with life, much like his shaft below, the pulse thudding through Candle’s fingers.

”Hush Wines... this shan’t be... but a moment...”

A squeeze... a gasp... Candles opening his maw wide and pressing fangs to flesh, easily piercing skin as Wines leaked over his fingers, increasing the speed of his hand as lips sealed in place.

The rich Ichor of Wines flowed into Candle’s mouth, eagerly swallowed before giving a faint suck to increase the flow, rocking his hips in time with Wine’s squirming, both Male hoods dripping onto the stone floor. Life poured into his body, taken from his fellow Curator, a Debt to be Repaid for his once betrayal. Time would perhaps soften the fire within him, but for now the light bringer took satisfaction in feasting on those that gave him over to be feasted upon, pressing himself forward as his fingers slid down, tormenting the figure pressed against him.

Wines, meanwhile, was gasping shallowly, the sting of the bite seeming to only make him more receptive, heart pounding in his breast, a familiar ache building up in his gut as he was played expertly, like a well tuned violin, the Runt easily bringing out such noises from him as his need and desire grew higher and higher... He barely registered the sharp stab of pain as Candles pulled his head back, bone white face stained deep scarlet, but he heard the whispered words at his ear...

”Release for me...”

...and there was no possible way for him to refuse. Eyes closing, he tilted his head back, crying out in high pitches cries that only his fellow Masters could hear and understand, his squirming body held in place by the fed Candles behind him, and with a final squeeze both tips started to offer up their bounty. Thick, midnight black seed, glittering with the promise of new life shot out in a high arc, splashing against several stashed bottles, Wine’s ears ringing with Candle’s own cries behind his head, jaw hanging slack as chirp after squeak after trill was pulled from him, albino fingers milking them both with a perverse thoroughness.

Only when he had nothing else to offer did Candles relax his grip upon them both, stepping back, causing an unsteady Wines to sway and regain his footing.

”Exquisite, as ever my dear Wines...”

His dry hand ran down the length of his back, teasing his tail gangly before slipping between thighs. Sucking in air, the flustered Wines did nothing to prevent his exploratory fingers, ears folding at the amused chirping.

”So... ready... perhaps you are right Wines. This is not a good time. But perhaps soon...”

His fingers disappeared, and somehow he was back at the door, cloak wrapped around his body.

”If I cannot bare life, you might help me Make life. Good day Wines.”

The stone door once again slid soundlessly, leaving the panting figure of Wines to recover, the wound already closing over.

———————————

Running his tongue over his stained face as bed as he could with no mirror to hand, Candles took the long way down to the base of the tower, pausing onto splash water against his face along the way. There were deals to be made and inventory to move after all, and it was such a lucrative market. Idly, he hummed a familiar ditty to himself as he drew his hood over his head, a promise made several lifetimes ago.

_All will be well, and all manner of things will be well._


	2. A most Delicious Friend

He Climbed.

In a time and place long ago, the dead, or those who were better off restrained than allowed to wander freely, were given over to the Wells. As claws bit into stone and wings rustled in the dark, he had time to ponder. An insult? Or a mark of respect?

Did it matter?

The opening to his prison the last several centuries still lay far, far above, the tiny circle of Neath light calling out to him, promising open space to soar, fresh(er) air to breathe and... and access to _Them_.

He has no doubt they were still around, in one form or another. Death, already a stranger to the Curators, was truly absent here in the Neath. Perhaps for that he should be grateful.

A stone dislodges under his grip and plummets to the depths below, taking several seconds for the crack of stone on stone to reach his ears. His bones, freshly wrapped in new flesh, ache and his claws bleed down the wall, sheer determination urging him up further. The agony of centuries made mere discomfort out of anything the universe could throw at him by this point.

The speck of light in the distance was a little brighter. A little closer. And so on he Climbed...

—————————————

Most Masters preferred their spires lofty and open. A place to spread their wings and be true to their natures, discarding cloth and silk for the embrace of the void itself.

This one preferred a corner in between several bookcases, specially crafted lanterns hanging from the shelves in chains, and to the side, on a table so small it may as well have been a footstool, a steaming mug of something that was both bitter and sweet to the senses. Some local drink the humans couldn’t get enough of apparently. With infinite care, it teased a claw under a page and delicately flipped it over, eyes wide and hungry.

Candles watched him in amusement from the boundary of his Library. Out of them all, Pages was perhaps the most... innocent. His fellows may choose “naive” or “gone local” instead, but it was heartening to know that some things had stayed the same after all this time. Although they experienced much of the same emotions as the Humans, life in the Wilderness was not very conductive to softness. Would he have been as eager to amass his collection if the Messenger has made its offer a century later, a decade, a year?

There was no disturbing him once he was hooked into some new novel or collection of works without a sharp bark of Correspondence, and the chastisement after using such an incendiary tongue was rarely worth it. For now, he was content to simply browse, near silent footpads ringing like a bell in the empty spire. Sigils of Correspondence burned upon plaques set into the top of each bookcase, here was “ _metaphor_ ”, there was “ _rose_ ”. Only Pages himself understood the meanings and reasonings he separated the tomes by. Many of the titles that ran across their spines made for dreadfully dull reading. Perhaps they had more than meets the eye within.

As always however, when given time and unsupervised access to the Library, he found himself wandering back to the Chains.

The writing desk was ancient but strong, the material not quite stone yet not mere wood. A curiosity for later days however. It’s drawers, cabinets and lectern were bound in heavy leaden chains, tied to a single lead plate that burned with a sigil of the Correspondence, yet not one the Judgements themselves would have ever found themselves using. A delicate eye was required to trace where the one became two, a compounded word of Page’s own design.

Curiosity was such a bittersweet sensation. The allure of the forbidden, and the ease with which he could satisfy it, pale fingers tracing the burning word. Just a breath would be sufficient...

” **Lascivioubido** ”

Such a marriage of words would certainly be unbecoming for the Ministry of Decency of course. Pages couldn’t help the sly little grin that curved his lips up as he mouthed the words with barely a breath. The plaque blazed and winked out, silent for a time as the clasp on the back loosened its grip on the cabinets bindings.

Fingers twitching, he grasped the first handle and pulled, the entire section of the cabinet opening out on well oiled runners as smooth as liquid midnight, pink eyes roaming over the treasures held within. Eyes widening as his wings fluttered, running a claw over such titles as “Master of my Heart”, “My Master’s Spire”, “A Chiropterous Affair”...

The second cabinet offered much of the first, inscribed on claw tablets. Tightly furled scrolls in tubes. His toe claws tapped against stone as he drew out delicate glass sheets, preserving paper and canvas, all with a similar theme. A reclining Pages. A Pages at full wingspan. An incredibly detailed sketch of his wide open maw, fangs and tongue depicted with incredible attention to detail. Idly, Candles wondered who was brought into this place and allowed to sketch these forms. We’re they ever allowed to leave? Pages could be so very possessive in his own way.

Curiosity piqued, he came to the final item, a rather thick tome that lay dead centre upon the desk portion of the cabinet, quills, pencils, pens and more laid out in a neat little row to the side, inkwells and sharpening knives in a similar pattern above it. The book itself was unremarkable, a modest, some would say dull, grey leather binding, the telltale scoring on the spine when new pages were added.

Without much reference to go on, Candles lifted the book and opened to a random page somewhere in the middle.

And paused. It was certainly a diagram of some kind... He tilted his head to the side. The book to the other. And as Pages tended to rush when excited, he even turned it upside down with a critical eye. There was something almost familiar...

His finger caught on a corner, and revealed the small crease of a folded page. Carefully teasing it out, and opening it out, and once again until the image was four times it’s previous size and...

Oh. Well. Mr _Pages_...

There was even a key to the side with numbered explanations.

Even Curators... could they bend that way?

Was that a horse in the background? No, surely not... and yet...

Carefully he folded the diagram back into place and turned a page, wings rustling against his back, eyes widening slightly with each new diagram, possibilities and idle fantasies blooming in his mind. From the basic to the ambitious, it was all recorded here.

Were these anecdotal? Was the shy, excitable Pages really so worldly?

He should stop. He knows he should stop. But his fingers keep turning, and his eyes keep roaming, and certain quivers down below only got harder and harder to ignore...

Until the staccato of clicking claws from behind him broke through the pink haze that surrounded his thoughts, glancing back over a wing with an almost embarrassed swivel of the ears.

”Ah... Pages. Well, I do admit this is rather... awkward.”

The curator stood still as a statue, save for the rapid clicking of claws on the stone floor, the novel he was previously enraptured by clutched to his breast with both arms, reminding him of a hatchling clutching its first treasure. It was frankly adorable.

With surprising swiftness, he plucked the book of sketches from his unprotesting hands and slammed it back into the desk, shoving everything back into place and tugging at the chains once more. A barked command, and the lead plaque flared once more, Pages twisting round and pressing his back against the again bound cabinet.

”You... You pilfeferous... larcenivile... intrusififying...”

Candles rose his paws up in a calming gesture as Page’s wings flared higher and higher behind him, bowing his head slightly, attempting to stem the tide. From experience, he knew that if allowed to continue the wordly collector would cease to make any sense until he had taken a nap to calm down.

”My most Delightful and Precious friend, do forgive me. Your marvellous collection has done wonders for bringing me up to speed with this current era I find myself in, and in my eagerness to learn I assumed your kind invitation applied to the whole of your exquisite Library...”

Flattery for his collection was a well known, yet by no means less effective, method of calming the youngest of them, and slowly his wings returned to their place against his back.

”I... well... yes, however...”

Claws resume their nervous tapping on the floor as anger gave way to scandalised embarrassment, sweeping around Candles swiftly and heading deeper into his maze of bookcases. Following at a sedate pace, he couldn’t help but reflect on what he had saw in that handwritten manual. Experience, or dreamlike desire? Memory, or dormant lusts given form?

Curiously, he found himself intrigued by either option.

In the heart of the spire, with shelves and lecterns expanding out like a great web, lay the youngest’s nest, silks and cloths arranged to properly support their wings... and here and there, hidden in the folds were books, an apple here, a bottle there, and hanging in the air was a familiar musk, made more evident by the lack of an accompanying partner.

Pages himself was gathering several discarded manuscripts in his arms, pausing a moment as Candles stepped into the circle of lanterns, examining the oil reservoir of one critically.

”Do they suffice? No more accidents?”

The ebony furred of the two scurried from shelf to shelf, returning books into their rightful place, keeping his eyes averted from the Albino.

”They... perform their intended purpofulfillment with exemplariness beyond exemplpectations.”

He pauses and turns, a small little tug on his lips.

”No more wax stains.”

The two stood in silence for a few seconds, the tense atmosphere slowly cooling to a more comfortable one. A single step forward, reaching out to the other.

”You know why I am here.”

He nods sombrely, expectantly.

”I... I was against it. The whole... affair. What could one give, that we all could not contributify towards?”

He gently grasped the others wrist, starting to draw him back towards the nest. Following unquestioningly, accepting what was to come.

”I was a Runt. I had little other use.”

A half muttered, half spat burst of correspondence came from an ebony maw, following into the den of silks, looking down upon bone white fur. Fingers to his lips, the other leaned up to whisper, free hand tracing the membrane of a wing.

”I know. My... Delicious friend... most Delightful and Precious.”

His hand found the other’s tail and pinched, smiling slightly in the excited chirp to brought out.

”Page... 96 I believe was rather... interesting.”

A louder chirp and the scent of fresh musk filled the air, Pages nodding stiffly, allowing himself to be embraced in arms the colour of stars...  
  


——————————————

The hour was not yet upon him. Centuries, and still their relative clocks had not synchronised together. As such, Candles felt bittersweet confidence as his fingers explored between Page’s thighs, drinking deep the shuddering sigh at the side of his head. Fingers swept around in a familiar pattern, though reversed for his partner, stroking the folds that protected the Curator’s core, his claws raking carefully over the short nubs on either end.

Page’s reactions were swift, chirping as his dual nature responded eagerly, reaching out to meet Candles whilst at the same time spreading to invite him welcomingly. He chirped, loudly, as a pink tongue slid over his chest, feeling himself responding slower, if not just as eager. Soon, their dual prides lay against one another, twitching powerfully with each beat of their hearts.

The Runt wordlessly began to spread his legs apart, stroking a thigh that straddled him. A questioning look replied with a simple nod, causing Pages to squirm in anticipation, glancing down at their natures, head tilting, as though planning how to proceed. He allowed Pages to cup under his thigh and lift, moving himself without protest as his hips were partially rolled over, Pages adopting a similar pose.

Their proud spires soon met the others damp openings, Pages squirming atop the Runt with undisguised eagerness. A cautious press and both voices rose to the air as a chirp, spreading and gripping in unison.

Ebony lay down upon Ivory’s side, torso twisting until chest was pressed firmly against the base of his wings, reaching around to grasp at his breast. A gasp catching in his throat as he presses further, deeper, a circle of pleasure rolling from cock to cunt to cock to cunt, halfway embedded with each other.

A deep trilling, music of the stars flaring against Candle’s back as Pages squirms in his haste, pressing further, impaling himself upon hard, yet pliable flesh and greedily chasing the hot grip that squeezed down upon him, jabbing hips again and again until with a dual burst of high pitched chirping the two became one in a far more intimate way previously thought possible, legs entwined in a twisted tangle that put Page’s ambitious illustrations to shame.

He trembled upon his back for several moments as they both drank in the sensations. To have both natures used at once was... deviant, defiant, scandalous... To be used while using, and who’s to say a user may not also be used, and so on? A great swarm of Curators, gyrating, squirming and rolling one against another, against another.

The thought made his stars flare brighter than he thought possible, hips taking control of his actions as he started to pull back and forth against an unprotesting, equally loud Candles. In the depths of his mind, he wondered, what if three? Four? All of them? Could they one day all gather within a nest, obeying their most basic needs with each other, no need for words just touches and embraces...

He was barely aware that he was babbling away in a mixture of languages, different words for the same meaning crashing together in a cacophony of syllables, feeling a pink tongue sweep over his forearm. In between frenzied and eager chirps and squeaks, he heard the faint “May I?” and unable to bring himself to coherency long enough to answer merely pressed his arm against ivory lips.

The sting send a shudder through his body, causing him to clench and twitch, in turn causing his nest mate to moan and reciprocreate, the dull fires in their cores building up to a towering inferno, Pages pulling Candles hips back towards him as he yells out in a tangled mess of English, Correspondence and a half dozen other tongues combined.

He felt the suction on his arm as keenly as that upon his spire, and willingly, eagerly gave himself over to both, his essence flooding into the devoid, yet hungry womb of the Runt while his own greedily devoured everything that was offered into him, womb failing to quicken in the incorrect Hour, but demanding more and more nonetheless.

His head rested against the other’s, given a front row seat to his own consumption, watching with a detached interest as his loins kept sending bolts of pleasure to his skull, hips twitching rapidly, black upon white. Only his panting and Candle’s soft suckling filled the silence of the room.

He withdrew his fangs delicately, tongue soothing the torn flesh as they both basked, entangled in one another. With a faint twinge of protest in his lower back, Pages carefully disentangled his arms and straightened, stroking upon Candle’s hips.

”I... am most... I am _glad_ to see you again. I missed our commacumunicative sessions together.”

They both suppress short gasps as they prise themselves apart, unlocking their scandalous coupling with a flood of spent midnight, slipping apart and adding to the musk clinging to the nest, Pages giving out a faint tsk.

”I must attempt to the cleansvication of my nest soon...”

An amused chuckle accompanied Candle’s rising up, wiping the last traces of his meal from his lips.

”Then I bid you good night my dear Delicious one. I will leave you and your library in peace.”

For what it was worth, Pages made the effort, gathering soiled silks to be laundered, ears twitching as the entrance to his spire closed. His mind was ablaze with possiblities and his fingers itched so...

Mere moments later, the bundle abandoned at the foot of a bookshelf listed under _Fungal_ , a bark of correspondence lit several lanterns burning brighter, chains falling with a heavy thud. A fresh, pristine time was procured, grasping quill in hand, almost knocking the well over in his urge to fill it.

_A most **magnumient** scandal to be sure! Oh, but who could resist the depravity, the deviousness, the heart palpeflutterings brought about by such enthusiastic love spread across so many..._

As the scratchings of quill upon paper filled the air, his abandoned coffee mug list the last whisks of its steam, cooling as he scribbled long into the night...


	3. Sweetmeats

He could feel the stirring of the air now, the gate to his freedom laying just beyond reach. The pale glow of Glimlight reaching down to caress and soothe his broken, restored body, his eagerness causing him to throw caution to the wind. Claws and talons scrabbled for purchase on the stone that was rapidly becoming brick, sinking into crumbling mortar from centuries past. The aching in his limbs drowned out by the knowledge that there was space to move, go expand, to _soar_ again...

He burst from the well, spreading limbs knocking half of the brickwork loose, scattering then around his prison, clutching onto the stone of the Neath... Wind caressing his body, lights dancing over his eyes.

Finally... After centuries of agonising imprisonment, he was **free**...

—————————————

The “kitchen” in the spires had not been used for some time. Not since the Second City at least. The resulting mass of mould, fungus and rusted metal was easier to simply evict from the premises rather than spend fruitless hours and days scrubbing and scraping.

The return of their fallen brother sparked something within him that he hadn’t felt in a long time. Oh he still cooked, still brewed, still bartered, but for so long his heart wasn’t in it, ironically speaking.

But now... oh _now_...

Thick clouds of steam laden with the scents of roasting meats, simmering vegetables, his stills percolating as they produced various liqueurs and brews that he spent as much time guarding from a far too sober Wines than actually producing his fine drinkables.

An ageing apron, stained with various Jus, alcohol and blood, barely covered his impressive bulk, satisfied to remain void-clad while in his true element as he danced between pots and stoves and ovens, lost in the joy of creation.

He was aware of being watched, but dismissed the sensation, not when he had to remove the heat at _just_ the right moment...

The claws that ran down his back gently through his fur caused him to shift his weight questioningly without taking his gaze off the pot. A delicate tongue brushing over where wings met his body, causing shudders down his spine.

_Oh._

He had almost forgotten about their brother’s new... appetite. Despite himself, he obediently spread his legs wider at the tap to his inner thighs, wings fluttering as hot breath ghosted over his vent.

Impressed at how much his fingers were _not_ trembling, he shifted the pan aside with a small sigh of relief, caramelised but not burnt, only to gasp as something hot and slick dragged over his lips, claws scraping the floor as his toes curled.

Slender, but deceptively strong fingers gripped his hips, effectively immobilising him in place, the heat of the oven and stove contrasting with the lower, but no less intense, heat between his thighs. Pausing only to force his voice to obey him without embarrassing stammering, he glanced down and behind, a brief glimpse of star white fur confirming his suspicions.

”Candles! How very... _Goood_ to see you! If you give me a moment-“

The breath was stolen from his lungs as fingers gripped him tighter, the tip of a Curator’s impressive tongue slithering in, making his silent message clear. Hearts was not to move from this spot.

He did not moan. Nor cry out or squirm. He had far too much experience and skill for that, or so he told himself. But the light strokes, brief pressures, the maddeningly feathery glides caused his jaw to drop, panting softly.

Mating, for whelps or pure pleasure was no stranger to him, but was usually far more... active. The gyrations of bodies, the loud cacophony of bodies meeting and retreating, the sting of pain being chased by the heady rush of pleasure, leaving one _utterly_ spent and satisfied... And he was confident he gave just as much as he took, if his partner was up to the task.

But _this..._

It was clearly designed to torture the senses. That sinfully mobile tongue was caressing places that normally took his partners at least several minutes to find and target! The hot breath passing over him, knowing that the Runt was inhaling great lungfuls of his musk and all-too-ready-to-breed body, pride warring with his rising demand for satisfaction, sucking in air to ask the smaller one to just _mount_ him already and-

Smoke.

Opening eyes he had not realised he had closed, he scrambled for the nearest pan beginning to emit wisps of black, shifting it off the heat just in time to save the dish. His body _thrummed_ with the panic coursing through him, his entire body tightened... including, he noticed, his tunnel, squeezing delectably around that still... squirming... tongue...

_**Oh...** _

_That_ was his game.

He felt the other’s lips curl up in an almost cruel smirk, and as though satisfied the gastronomic Master was thoroughly warmed up, started to shift his tongue into rather sinful contortions. Doubling up on itself, swirling in a spiral, undulating, never the same position for longer than a heartbeat or two...

Hearts was forced to grip the brickwork around the oven, shamelessly letting various barks and snarls tumble from his maw, rushing headlong for that burst of pressure and release, only to be sidelined by Sizzling, Crackling, Burning of the courses meant for the Dinner, scrambling to save them from irreparable damage... only for the build up to begin once more, faster than before.

He could feel himself growing wetter as the torment continues, enough that the sight of a thoroughly soaked Candles swam through his mind, practically dripping with his juices, sinfully cleaning as much of his face as his sinuous tongue could reach...

Wether impatience or pity, the runt finally ceased his teasing, grabbing onto the stocky culinarian’s hips tightly and began to _devour_ him with a voracious hunger not seen since the days of the Seekers, lips sealed tightly around his lower pair, coiled tongue punching in deep, simulating some of rather more well endowed partners, not just pushing but _shoving_ him towards that finish line and-

Sparks filled the room, or so it appeared to the dazed Hearts as he pulled himself back from the oblivion of a true, proper **fuck**... nothing as tepid as lovemaking or as clinical as mating, this was something to torment and reward in equal measure. The stink of post coital musk and the heady scent of curator pheromones mingled with the steam and scents of Dinner to create an atmosphere that brought the ever hungry one to as close to nirvana as one could get in the Neath.

And then slender fingers encircled his member, _and when did that emerge?_ and it gripped so tightly yet so carefully and squeezed and stroked and a second set of fingers worked at his mighty set of reservoirs and he heard the voice, heard the question but did not hear the words, surrendering himself as long as he just kept _moving_ , kept tugging and rolling and-

He barked at the sudden sting behind him, pacified by several gentle, apologetic strokes, hungry lips sealing over his fresh wound and drawing upon him. He shuddered with each firm sensation of pressure as he was drawn upon, his entire being quivering as he performed the highest methods of servitude, not only to prepare and to feed, but to be fed _upon_...

Embarrassingly quickly, he threw his head back, Correspondence blackening stone as his hips jerked, fingers following as they squeezed and... and _milked_ him like some common cattle, drawing out his bounty with almost sadistic glee, only finally releasing his grip when he had no more to offer.

Gleamingly sharp fangs carefully withdrew from his thigh, the runt coming to stand beside him, licking a few spots of black from his lips. A brief glance caused his aching sexes to twinge again, the albino’s face matted and spiked, tell tale signs of wet fur improperly dried. Taking a calming breath, he forced himself into composure, reaching for the oven once more...

Staring in disbelief at the confection that was to be the pride of place upon their table. Fresh Fruit. From the _surface_ no less. Entombed within a crumbly prison of a crust, trapping the juices within to mingle and infuse and... and it was _covered_. Like one of those cheap, gaudy pieces of work that was more icing than actual substance, and more sawdust than actual baking.

Candles gave a small little smile as he reached out and, mindful of the rest of the simmering creations, slid two fingers over the mess, bringing ebony stained fingers to mouth, coyly looking at the larger Master while slipping them between his lips, a soft hum of approval causing his chest to rumble.

”You have truly outdone yourself this time. Such a powerful flavour...”

His fingers withdrew, pristine white once more, and with eyes too wide and innocent to be believable to be genuine, turned to casually saunter out of the kitchens, preening a wing nonchalantly.

“I look forward to attending Dinner once more, especially with such... intense flavours on offer.”

Eyes shifting from the runts disappearing ivory form, he regarded the dripping confection before giving a single shouldered shrug, setting it aside to serve later. At the very least, the satisfaction of watching Veils consume his homemade desert would be worth the fallout once the special ingredient was revealed...


End file.
